Free The House of Dreams by Kate Lord Brown

was on Miriam, and Varian could see he was digesting her case with the sharp focus of a man used to working in the prefecture of police in Paris. The Bénédite family were friends of Mary Jayne’s, and she looked on Danny as a brother. When the Bénédites had fled to the south of France after the Occupation, Danny, his wife, Théo, and their small son headed to Marseille. Tall, slim, and dark, with intelligent, kind eyes that missed nothing behind his thick glasses, Danny ran the ARC with incredible efficiency. Just as Beamish was Varian’s closest friend and ally in the more clandestine work of the organization, Danny was relied on to run the official work of the center, giving aid and advice to refugees. Behind him, Varian could see another of Mary Jayne and Miriam’s recruits. Justus Rosenberg, or “Gussie,” as they affectionately called him, was the fourteen-year-old office boy the girls “adopted” as they fled south to Marseille. His innocent face had proved useful messengering documents across the city. Now he sat guarding the entrance door with Charlie.
    They were all adrift, Varian realized, all on the run themselves, yet they were risking everything to help people whose work had changed the world. Whose work will change the world, he corrected himself. I’m going to get every name on that list out of France if it kills me. Some days it felt as though it just might. But then, with his team, every day miracles seemed possible.
    â€œI have another recommendation,” Miriam said, sorting through the files. “Mary Jayne interviewed a chap—Gabriel Lambert. A highly respected painter, more art deco than avant garde.…”
    *   *   *
    Even Mary Jayne, he thought now, whose sheer privilege and … Varian frowned as he tried to pin down what it was that annoyed him so much about the beautiful young American heiress. Was it her money? Her taste in men? Goddamn that punk Couraud. The thought that Mary Jayne’s boyfriend could betray them at any moment, could bring too much police attention to the organization, troubled him. He bit the inside of his lip as he walked on. He had to admit, even Mary Jayne had been invaluable. She’s given freely of her fortune and her time. Thanks to her, a second list—the Gold List—had been drawn up, and the $7,000 she had given to the rescue committee had saved hundreds of lives already. She risked her own, too, Varian had to admit. He had been impressed that she managed to get four prisoners of war out of the camp at Vernet. Though I’d rather not think how she persuaded the camp commander.
    Now, as he wove through the back streets toward the station, he thought not for the first time that the city was half cesspool, half asylum. Varian marked off in his mind the brothels and fleabag hotels where their refugees were hiding out, waiting for visas and passports. Brothels were safe because the police were bribed not to raid them. Elsewhere in the city, the refugees had to take their chances.
    Varian switched his suitcase to his other hand and shouldered his way through the crowd outside a bar. Demobbed soldiers jostled on the pavement—a group of Zouaves in Turkish trousers and Senegalese fighters in bright turbans was arguing. He saw the flash of a knife and skirted around, adrenaline pulsing through him. His stomach lurched with hunger at the sight of a woman spooning bouillabaisse from her bowl. He thought of his empty hip flask and checked his watch. There was just time to get it refilled, so he pushed his way through to the bar.

 
    NINE
    M ARSEILLE
    1940
    M ARY J AYNE
    Mary Jayne Gold and Raymond Couraud danced close, lost in one another on the crowded dance floor. She felt the pressure of his hand at the base of her spine, the warmth of his palm through the thin silk of her blouse. His cheek was smooth against hers, freshly shaven, and she breathed in the scent of him. The